


The Spanish Fort

by R00bs_Teacup



Series: hc bingo 2016 [4]
Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Canon Compliant, Missing Scene
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-13
Updated: 2016-08-13
Packaged: 2018-08-08 12:58:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,330
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7758712
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/R00bs_Teacup/pseuds/R00bs_Teacup
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>the time d'Artagnan and Athos rescue Porthos from the Spanish, for my hc bingo square 'hunger/starvation'</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Spanish Fort

**Author's Note:**

> WARNINGS: starvation/hunger, porthos talks about being starving as a child, flashbacks, war, torture, nothing graphic, no torture 'on stage'

It’s not so bad, d’Artagnan thinks. Not so bad: he’s sitting, and his eyes are open. d’Artagnan crouches, reaching. Porthos moans and shuts his eyes, curling around himself. d’Artagnan withdraws. 

“Right. On your feet, Porthos,” d’Artagnan says. 

Porthos opens his eyes again and looks up, starting at d’Artagnan, glazed. 

“Come on, sir,” Jacques whispers from his lookout at the door, nervous. 

Rightly so, they shouldn’t be here at all, and they certainly should not be lingering. 

“Get up,” d’Artagnan hisses at Porthos. “Get up.”

Porthos lumbers to his feet, blinking. d’Artagnan nods and gives him a shove, forcing himself into roughness. He orders Porthos to follow Jacques. 

*

They get halfway back, then Porthos sits down. 

“Up,” d’Artagnan commands. 

He just gets a glower for his trouble, and Porthos waves him off, leaning on an arm. d’Artagnan crouches, reaching again. This time Porthos doesn’t flinch or look afraid, so d’Artagnan doesn’t draw back. He examines Porthos for wounds. He finds little. A few cuts, the burn from something hot, maybe a poker. Bruises. d’Artagnan prods at the bruises, wishing he had Aramis’ expertise. Or even Porthos’. Without Aramis around, Porthos has been doing most of the medic side of things, when one isn’t available. 

“What?” d’Artagnan asks, pulling Porthos’ disgustingly dirt encrusted shirt back down. 

Porthos shakes his head, though, and tugs at d’Artagnan until he’s beside Porthos. Then he puts an arm over d’Artagnan’s shoulders. d’Artagnan pushes up and stands, hauling Porthos with him. He over compensates and they stagger. 

“Sir,” Jacques says, jittering, eyes on the fort that the Spanish hold. 

They start off again, Porthos using d’Artagnan as support, this time. 

*

Athos goes on pacing. As soon as d’Artagnan gives in and goes to get Porthos, Athos begins to pace. He stays in the captain’s tent, his tent. The men shouldn’t see him like this, d’Artagnan was right about that, anyway. He was certainly not right about leaving Porthos to languish in the clutches of the evil Spanish bastards and curs who might do all kinds of damage. Arthos stops pacing long enough to scrabble through the piles of reports on his desk. 

He tosses them aside one after another, stories, terrible stories, of things the war has done to this part of the land. So much destruction, so much fear, so much desperation. Not just the Spanish, Athos knows, but it’s much easier to believe it of the Spanish than to believe that his own men might fall into such a state. Do such things. 

There’s a clamour outside, and Athos listens. It’s the men Porthos commands. Athos dashes from the tent, forgetting his position and his men. He sprints to the edge of the camp. d’Artagnan and Jacques are returning, flanked by some of Porthos’ men, staggering. Athos runs, meeting them, embracing Porthos. 

Porthos tips into him, body heavy, looking for Athos’ support. Trembling through all his limbs. Athos catches him up and holds him, frowning. He looks to d’Artagnan, but d’Artagnan is already stalking away, giving commands to the men around him. Porthos’ men, as well as his own, and others’ too. Everyone is under d’Artagnan’s command when he’s in a rage. Even Athos. 

“Get him to the medical tent,” d’Artagnan calls over his shoulder. 

Athos takes him to the captain’s tent, instead, laying him on the cot there. Porthos doesn’t like going in the medical tent, too many people. He can’t watch his back. Still won’t let Athos do it. Still waits for Aramis, still looks to Aramis. Aramis who isn’t there. 

“What have you damaged this time?” Athos asks. 

Porthos glares, then coughs weakly, groaning, curling onto his side. 

*

Nearly a week before, Porthos had come up with a plan to scout out the Spanish strong-hold. He’d been sure of his way in, of the layout of the fort, of where the weapons were stashed. In and out, he’d said. His way out was tunnels he was sure existed. His intelligence came from a Spanish soldier he’d been working over. Which mostly meant standing there looking threatening, not saying a word, while the soldier talked. 

Porthos had not returned, and Athos had wanted to go in right away, using the tunnels he suddenly had absolute belief in. Without Porthos there, it was much easier to trust him entirely. His instincts always were good, and he always had been able to tell a lie from the truth. To read people so thoroughly. When Porthos is there, it’s much easier to put out of your mind how easy he might read you. 

A dangerous man, but not for the things everyone assumed of him. It wasn’t his violence or strength, or his ability to take a hit and stay standing. None of the threat he put on for the soldier. Porthos was all those things, but what made him truly dangerous was his mind, his knowledge of human nature, his ability to predict reactions and actions. 

His ability to withstand, to endure, to survive. 

*

“Would’ve been fine,” Porthos mutters. 

Athos is perched on the edge of the cot, with a clean cloth and a bowl of fresh water from the rain barrel. He’d offered Porthos a mug of the water, but Porthos had suggested this instead. 

“This is for thirst, when you haven’t drunk in too long,” Athos says, pressing the cloth to Porthos’ lips and letting his suck. “You die, if it goes too many days, of that.”

“People have said I was going to die before, and here I am,” Porthos says. 

He’s tired, though. Too tired to argue his side. Athos wets the cloth again and passes it over, resting his arm on Porthos’ shoulder. 

“It was not rash, it was strategic. What is an army without Porthos to lead us?” Athos whispers. 

Porthos snorts and tosses the cloth into the bowl where it’s set on the table. It splashes, hitting it’s target. 

“What would Athos be without Prothos, then?” Athos says, still at a whisper. 

Porthos snorts again, but pats Athos’ thigh. 

“You haven’t eaten, either, have you?” Athos says. 

Porthos shakes his head, eyes sliding shut, and his hand, still resting on Athos’ thigh, clenches, digging into the muscle there. Athos winces, but doesn’t protest. 

“We haven’t much, we’re still in need of supplies. A little bread?” Athos suggests. 

“Too tired,” Porthos says. 

“Broth,” Athos says. “Warm chicken broth, the way-”

The way Aramis makes it, Athos had been going to say. 

*

d’Artagnan is still angry with Athos, but he knows that Porthos will be in the captain’s tent, so he goes there. He takes soup from Armand’s fire, and a mug of ale. He goes to his own tent, that he shares with Porthos, first, and digs the apple he’s been saving out from his bedroll. It’s wrinkled, old already by the time it got here in the parcel from Constance, but still good. 

He finds Porthos alone. He’s curled, not quite sleeping. d’Artagnan goes to kneel by the bed and pokes Porthos’ cheek. Porthos scowls, then reaches out a clumsy hand which connects with d’Artagnan’s cheek in a ringing slap. d’Artagnan gasps, shocked. 

“Oops,” Porthos says, trying again. This time his hand curls around d’Artagnan’s neck, pulling him in for a kiss. “Thank you for gettin’ me. I’d have been fine.”

“Yes, I told Athos. He insisted,” d’Artagnan says. “Here, I brought you things.”

“Not the ale, can’t. Make me sick.”

“Eh?”

“Had no food, little water,” Porthos says. 

d’Artagnan offers the stew instead, and Porthos eats a few bites. Then he catches sight of the bulge in d’Artagnan’s pocket, and quick as a flash he’s got hold of d’Artagnan’s knife and cut the fabric, skewered the apple, and drawn it under the covers. 

“Hey,” d’Artagnan says, pulling at the torn pocket. “I had brought it for you anyway!”

Porthos pulls it out from under the blanket and tries to slice it. His hands are shaking badly, though. d’Artagnan takes apple and knife before Porthos does himself an injury, hastily cutting a slice before Porthos resorts to drastic measure to get the fruit back. Porthos sucks on the apple, not chewing it, until Athos comes in. Then he chews quickly and holds out a hand. d’Artagnan, finished slicing the rest long ago, passes the pieces over. 

“This is for me,” Porthos tells Athos.

Athos doesn’t say anything, just sits on the edge of the bed, right against Porthos’ stomach, and waits silently. Porthos grumbles, working his way through the apple, sending Athos resentful little glances. Then he sighs and gives Athos a slice. Athos smiles, eats it fast, and then helps himself to a second and third piece. One of these he gives to d’Artagnan. 

“Was mine,” Porthos grumbles, but he hands the last two slices over as well. “Go ahead, my stomach is protesting already anyway. I’m so hungry, but it hurts to eat. Feel sick, now.”

“Some water?” Athos offers. 

“Ale?” d’Artagnan suggests. 

Porthos takes a few sips of water, then sighs heavily. d’Artagnan drinks the ale himself. 

*

“I had to get him,” Athos says, later, softly. 

Porthos is asleep, snoring. d’Artagnan’s watching him, seeing signs of restlessness and discomfort even though Porthos is still and limp with exhaustion. In the slight clench of his fingers, the inching of his hand on his stomach, the changes in his breathing, the tiny movements of his mouth. Athos is sat on the floor, pressing a wet cloth to Porthos’ too-dry lips now and then, elbow on the bed and head resting on his hand. 

“There is more to war than Porthos,” d’Artagnan says. “We cannot risk men’s lives, hundreds of men’s lives. More than one prisoner means all kinds of ways to torture and extract, and you know as well as I that Porthos, loyal and dutiful and good and kind… Athos, if they had me there in front of him, and he hadn’t broken, and they had destroyed me, do you think he’d ever have forgiven either of us? I never said we should leave him to die, never said we shouldn’t rescue him. But it was so reckless.”

“You’re a hot-headed fool,” Athos says. “How come you were advising me steadiness?”

“Who else was here to do it?” d’Artagnan says. “I would, if Aramis were here, or if Porthos were here, have gone haring off on my own. When there are four, one may, without too much disaster. But two? We can’t both be hot and angry all the time.”

“I’m not angry. Shh, hey, hush now, Porthos, we’re here,” Athos says. 

d’Artagnan missed whatever told Athos that Porthos was in distress, but he can see it now. Porthos has twisted himself, face pressing into the pillow. He whimpers, hand clenching over Athos’ wrist then going limp. 

“Aramis, Aramis,” Porthos mutters, losing his strength, body lax. “Aramis.”

“He’s safe,” Athos says. 

“Yeah, in his bloody monkey house,” Porthos growls. “I know. I’m gonna kill ‘im.”

“That will save the Spanish the trouble, I suppose,” Athos says. “And they go to such trouble. It feels bad not to help them out.”

“Shuddup,” Porthos murmurs, voice fading. 

“Water,” Athos says, pressing the cloth to his lips. “I think soon you may have a drink, you’ve been at this while you slept.”

Porthos doesn’t answer, and a moment later he’s snoring again. 

“I need him,” Athos says, a desperate edge to his voice. “I need him, d’Artagnan, and I don’t know what to do with that. I’m supposed to be captain, but I feel like I’m just stumbling around in the mud, clinging to Porthos, while he does the work. And then you blaze in and take over, to my relief, ordering everyone. I make a terrible captain.”

“Get some rest,” d’Artagnan says, getting up from the desk chair and moving over to Athos’ shoulder, holding out a hand. “Give me the cloth and the water, I’ll continue. I’ll stay with him.”

“I can keep awake. I don’t feel like sleep.”

“You might not feel like it, but trust me, you need it. You look terrible. Just go grab a bed roll and camp down on the ground in here, I can wake you if you’re needed.”

“Or wanted,” Athos says. 

He waits for d’Artagnan to give in to his demand, then goes. Soon enough d’Artagnan’s alone, with a single dim candle, his friends asleep either side of him.

**

Athos wakes to the sounds of Porthos expelling the contents of his stomach, and d’Artagnan, incongruously, laughing. Athos frowns and turns his head in his bedding to see. Porthos is hanging over the edge of the bed, spit and vomit trailing from his lips. 

“Sorry,” Porthos says, hoarse and sheepish. 

“That’ll teach you to steal my breakfast,” d’Artagnan says. “Cheese, I think, is a bad way to break a three and a half day fast.”

“Are soup and apple yesterday,” Porthos says. 

“Yes you did, I can see it quite clearly right on the floor there. Oh, sorry,” d’Artagnan says, as his comment makes Porthos retch again. “Alright, let me get something to clean up. You okay?”

“Yeh,” Porthos says, arm collapsing under him, falling face-first into the pillow. 

“Morning,” Athos says. 

“Good, you’re awake. Make sure he doesn’t try to eat my breakfast while I get a bucket of water,” d’Artagnan says, leaving the tent. 

Athos gets up and, avoiding the small puddle that is mostly bile, sits on the edge of the bed, nudging until Porthos is properly on it again. 

“Sleep well?” Porthos asks. 

“Like a log,” Athos admits. “Did you really steal d’Art’s cheese?”

“Couldn’t help it. He was talking to Jacques, and left his plate within reach.”

“Hungry?”

“Dunno. Mostly nauseated, and achy. Maybe he’ll bring me something better than cheese. It had mould on it, too.”

“Mm. Waiting on supplies, remember?”

“I remember.”

“What happened? How did you end up captured, instead of running madly through tunnels blowing things up and cackling, laden with sausage and wine?”

“Stupid. It was so… stupid.”

“What happened?” Athos asks again, more gently, stroking Porthos’ forehead and cheek. 

“I thought I heard Aramis, in the cells,” Porthos whispers, pressing his face into Athos’ thigh, a shudder going through him. “Could’ve sworn it was him.” 

“There was no one but you, there,” Athos says. 

“They had a guard or sommat in, sleeping off a barrel of wine,” Porthos says. “He was singing bawdy songs.”

“How much Spanish do you speak?” Athos asks, curious. As far as he knows, Aramis taught Porthos to swear, and that’s the limit of it. 

“Fair bit,” Porthos says. “Never realised how much, till I heard it day in day out. I understand the soldiers at least in part because they’re just like us, same idea you know? Same jokes, same conversations.”

“You’re turning out very multi-talented. Feel any more like sharing those talents than you did in Paris?”

“Not particularly.”

“Belligerent, stubborn cuss. Okay,” Athos says. “Okay. You’re alright as you are, if you want that.”

d’Artagnan comes back, then, with a bucket and cloths, and with a bowl of thin porridge and a wine bottle. 

“It’s water,” d’Artagnan says, passing the bottle and bowl to Athos. “Thought it might be easier to drink from than a mug.”

It is. Porthos manages a few mouthfuls before Athos pulls it away from him and offers him porridge instead. His stomach stays in place, too. Athos stays sat with him for as long as his duties allow, thinking back to all the times Porthos has hidden his talents and skills carefully away behind a wall of brute strength. No one likes a clever sewer rat, Porthos had told him. It’s okay for a man to rise, so long as everyone around him can continue to feel superior. I’d prefer not to be perceived as a threat. 

Ironic, Athos thinks, that that entailed becoming a physical threat. Becoming the epitome of what most people think of as ‘threatening’. Funny how that, the familiarity of it, gave people comfort and made them feel safe. And clever of Porthos to work it out, use it, subvert it, and still manage to rise through the ranks. 

**

“How’s your stomach?” Athos asks Porthos, the next day around lunch time. 

Porthos is still in bed, but not through any choice of his own. Since last night he’s been getting up and getting about as much as he can before d’Artagnan, or one of the others, catches him at it and herds him back. He’s tired, now, though, and mostly there of his own accord. For the moment. Athos has his lunch spread before him on the table, Porthos is spooning dolefully at some soup, not eating it.

“Fine,” Porthos says. 

Athos contemplates the food in front of him, and passes Porthos some of the bread. Porthos dunks it in the soup and eats more happily. 

“Tomorrow,” Athos says. “Tomorrow, you can get up and eat whatever you like. We need to break camp tomorrow evening, move on. They must know you’re missing, they’re probably planning something.”

“We should take the fort,” Porthos says. 

“That’s what lead to this mess,” Athos points out, as mildly as he can. 

“Mm,” Porthos agrees, deceptively mild himself. 

**

d’Artagnan sits over the map, brooding. Porthos is speaking again. He’s sat at the desk, hand moving over paper to draw out his plan, detail the fort, the guards. d’Artagnan has to admit the plan feels solid. There’s just the small matter, though, the tiny matter of-

“Sir, I hate to interrupt,” Houle says, sounding anything but sincere. 

“Yet you are doing so,” Porthos says, waving a hand expansively and knocking Athos’ hat off his head. Athos bends and picks it up, replacing it, without remark. 

“Yet I am doing so. Because, as I know everyone here is itching to point out, you just escaped from there and the Spanish are aware you just escaped and are probably aware you are back here. The only reason we’re not being attacked is because they still don’t know where we’re camped.”

“They know you have intelligence so they’ll change everything,” d’Artagnan finishes. 

Porthos grins around at them. 

**

“You can’t read minds,” d’Artagnan says, again. “You can’t know this is right.”

“I know it’s right,” Porthos says. “I’m telling you, I know. Look, I’m not stupid, I wasn’t looking at how things were being done, but how things were decided, who decided, what the rotas and men and guard lists were like. The man who questioned me is the man who does the ordering about. I got to know him very well.”

“Still, you’re only guessing that this is current, and not just made up by you,” d’Artagnan says. 

“Shut up both of you,” Athos says, pouring over Porthos’ plans. “Look, these don’t rely too much on the intelligence being a hundred percent accurate, d’Art, I think it’ll work. I’m going to give the go ahead. You, Porthos, are not coming.”

Porthos looks delighted, then crestfallen. The sudden changes in emotion, though, seem to make him a little dizzy. He slumps in the chair, exhausted, energy leaving him. 

“I think it’s a bad idea,” d’Artagnan says. 

“Possibly. There isn’t a good option here, though. We need the position, the only other thing we can do is move, and that will mean moving further away, out of position. If we stay, we risk attack. If we go, we’re out of position and risk the Spanish breaking French lines. If we attack the fort, we risk death. I think the benefit outweighs that,” Athos says. 

“I don’t think you’ll die,” Porthos says, softly. “Not if you do it my way. Not if you don’t get distracted by whistling. There’s too many quick exits, too many backups. Right, d’Artagnan? Am I right, Charles?”

“You’re right,” d’Artagnan says. “Three, now, Athos. Two hot heads?”

“One,” Athos says, pointing at Porthos. d’Artagnan snorts. 

“I’m going to write to Constance,” he says, leaving the tent. 

**

Porthos, when he’s brought to the fort by the men who were left to keep their camp, teeters, stares at a stone chamber that Athos knows was used for torture, and loses his stomach on the paving stones. He then staggers off, refusing to say anything. Athos finds him in the cells, sitting against the wall. the Spanish in there are staring at him in wide eyed amazement. 

“Porthos, come out,” Athos says. 

“This is him, the one who was singing.”

“You want concert?” One of the soldiers says. 

He looks a little like Aramis, but mostly just the hair style. He sounds too rough and hoarse, too low. He sings a few bars, though, before laughing, and Athos can see it. Just. Porthos gets to his feet and sighs heavily, resting a hand on his stomach, shutting his eyes. 

“I’m hungry,” Porthos says. “Think I saw some sausage last time I was here.”

“Come away, then,” Athos says.

“Yeah. Eat all their food, leave them with nothing.”

“Rules are we feed our prisoners,” Athos says. 

“Ever had nothing in your belly, night after night, day after day, knowing there’s no end to it? Ever lived for weeks off scraps taken from the animals? Not something that leaves you, that. Aches deep inside. Easy to bring up those memories. No one but me, no food, nothing over my head, nothing to clothe me.”

“Come on,” Athos says, holding out a hand. 

Porthos comes. As he walks slowly over, the man begins to sing again. Not a bawdy song or something light and jokey, but a rich lament. 

“Give ‘em things to eat,” Porthos mutters to the man guarding the cell. “Give ‘em water.”

**

He’s stood in their high watch position, leaning on the stone, looking out across the land around them. d’Artagnan leans next to him, shoulder to shoulder. 

“I would have come for you,” d’Artagnan says. “I would never have left you.”

“I know,” Porthos says. “I knew. I’m thinking about miracles.”

“The court?”

“Yeah. Athos says it’s called a place of miracles because of the tricks of the beggar and guller. There’s not much to be spoken well of the place. But People survive, there, and that’s miraculous. On nothing, somehow.”

“Sometimes they even thrive. Join the army, rise to the highest guard in the country, protect the king himself. Hard work, skill, perseverance.”

“Plenty of belligerence.”

“And a stomach made of steel and lead,” d’Artagnan finishes, laughing, rubbing Porthos’ stomach. 

“See Athos on your way up?”

“He’s malingering in his office, sleeping on his paperwork, pretending to write a report. Houle’s in with him, actually writing a report, so he can’t escape. I came to relieve you. I don’t feel like doing his paperwork.”

“Neither do I!”

“He thinks he’s a bad captain,” d’Artagnan muses, leaning. 

Porthos goes, with a grumble to show he knows d’Artagnan is playing him. 

**

Athos looks up when Porthos comes wandering in, apple between his teeth, another in his hand. Porthos sends Houle away and takes over the reports. He writes, eyeing Athos mischievously, in Athos’ neat hand, instead of his own scrawl. 

“You told us you were nothing of a copier,” Athos says. 

“I’m not. You’re writing is just easy, and I’ve been writing your reports for years,” Porthos says, grinning, glad to have been noticed. 

“Been carrying me a while, haven’t you?” Athos grumbles, resting back on the desk. 

“You are little enough to carry. Tiny little thing, you are,” Porthos says. 

“Don’t you dare,” Athos says, knowing his friend too well. “I’ll put you on latrine duty.”

“Dunno what’s worse, shoveling shit or writing it,” Porthos says, but he doesn’t come and pick Athos up. “Can’t tell you you’re great at it, or make you feel good. More to captaining than paperwork, though. I’d follow you, trust your lead, wherever you take me. So would everyone here.”

“Yours too.”

“You’ve got the skills, Athos. Learning to use them, how to go about it, that’ll come. You’re doing fine. I keep on getting these waves of memory, you know? Like my body is turning into one giant sense memory. My mother, the court, Flea and Charon. And you. That time when I was so, so sick and couldn’t keep anything down. I was a right mess, in all ways, crying out for Maman, for God, for anyone but you. But you came every time. You’ve earnt my loyalty, in ways no one else ever bothered with or thought of. I’ve seen you do it everywhere, as well, not just me. You’ve earnt all our loyalty. We’ll follow you wherever you might lead us. 

Even,” Porthos adds, grinning. “Even to assault an unassailable castle on the flimsy word of a man half-crazed from dehydration and hunger. You trust me, and my men trust me, and d’Artagnan trusts me, but Athos, it wasn’t my word they trusted to bring us safe through to this. You’re doing fine.”

Athos feels his skin heat, flushing, a blush creeping right over him. He isn’t sure Porthos is right, but he’ll take is all the same.

“Good,” Porthos says. “Because I am not actually writing the entirety of your report. I plan on napping over there, while you finish this. I sleep better with you watching my back, the memories are better ones.”

Athos’ head comes up, startled. Porthos clearly doesn’t know what he’s just said. He’s gone months, now, refusing to let his guard down, refusing to let Athos or d’Artagnan watch his back, determined that Aramis must be the one to do it. Yet here he is, letting Athos be on guard. Athos reaches out as Porthos passes, and Porthos turns, kneels, pressing his forehead to Athos’.

“Captain,” he says. 

“I am well,” Athos says. 

Porthos nods, head slow and heavy with weariness. Athos kisses his cheek and draws him to stand, nudging him toward the cot in the corner. Porthos stumbles over, sprawls over it with just a small concession to his stomach, slightly on his side, and goes off to sleep without a twitch. 

~fin~


End file.
